


without words

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, M/M, the real villain of this fic is water colour paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 09:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: “For those of you who are just joining us,” his professor says, his voice going stern when he glances at Gabe. “This is Tyson Barrie, one of our models for the term.“His professor is still droning on aboutsomething, but it all blends together into one incomprehensible speech. Gabe absolutely couldn’t care less.That is until he looks up. And—okay.





	without words

**Author's Note:**

> i've wanted to write an arsty gabe fic for literally ever?? so here's this :)

For longer than Gabe can remember, art has just been his thing. 

He’s the one doodling in the margins of his notebooks during classes, the one willing down the urge to sketch across any sheet of paper he’s handed, the one who still needs to learn how to keep his shit in check before he goes out of his way for his doodles, scribbling patterns across every blank piece of paper he gets.

So instead, Gabe’s got a busted up notebook he always keeps in his bag. The back of it is threatening to fall off and each time he pulls it out it somehow looks just a little rougher. The first few pages are torn up, folded on the edges with frustrated scribbles plastered over every other drawing. Because it’s an old notebook, one from before he ended up replacing it with newer ones. 

But this one is special. It’s partially full of his doodles from middle school, ones that evolve into full-fledged art pieces over time. Ones with value and depth, models that grew anatomically, art styles that gained realism throughout the years. Page after page, filling out this one book, afraid of the day he hits the end. So he’s careful. 

He keeps it pressed to the back of his bag, only pulling it out to sketch things that catch his eyes. A wilting flower he walks past on his way to a class, the potted pansy on his windowsill, or the blue jay that lands by his spot under a tree. 

Everything else will go into his actual notebook, the _doable_ one. It’s what he’ll put his projects in, the models he sketches in art class, or the assignment he needs to complete. Instead of pencil, this one’s full of charcoal. Including works with water colours blending into oceans and sunsets tucked between pages. It’s great and all, but Gabe’s never going to be able to replace pencil as his favourite, easy and reliable. It’s not always very forgiving of his mistakes, but it’s still much better than watercolour. 

Gabe still has nightmares about the time he knocked an entire glass of water over a project done up with only water colour paints. Seeing work he’d spent hours on literally wash down the drain was traumatizing.

But when he sends in his admission for art shoool, it’s his doable notebook he shows off. The one full of perfectly constructed works and only the best of the best. It’s in his doable notebook that he doesn’t allow mistakes, ripping out pages that don’t live up to his expectations, trashing them just like that. 

He’ll get rid of these imperfections because an eraser won’t always work, crumpling up every piece unworthy of being caught between pieces he’s shown off in class. Because that was high school, and high school allowed mistakes. When things got rough, he’d be welcomed with open arms regardless. 

The fucking art program was dying, what else would they do. 

But now he’s stepping into the real world. He’s setting all else aside just to get a taste of the better life, and if that means ripping pages out of a notebook so be it.

 

 

Gabe‘s overwhelmed with this sense of disbelief even after he’s accepted, despite his mother’s constant hype over everything he’s ever drawn. He could write up the unfunniest comic known to man and fill it with nothing but stickmen and she’d pinch his cheeks, gushing about how she’s so, so proud. 

So it’s only expected that getting into art school turns into a family wide event, with his mother gloating to every relative he’s got, despite the way Gabe turns red every time she brings it up. 

And that’s fine. It’s easier, during the buzz.

But then it wears down. Then Gabe’s got a year full of classes ahead of him, and the excitement wears down with each morning he runs into class. Each time he sits down in front of a canvas with tired eyes and three hours of sleep on his back he’s expected to pick up a brush and immediately pump out picture perfect _gold_. 

And—Gabe’s an artist. He’s not a wizard. 

So it’s a little rough, that first year. Where he’s up to his shoulders in assignments, struggling to keep up with one of them, let alone all ten he’s got due next fucking week. And he’s only just getting used to being exposed to a vast variety of new materials, oil paints his high school couldn’t afford, soft pastels that don’t crumble between his fingers, and conté sticks in whole pieces. It’s a completely new world. He can’t keep up. Not like this.

Then he dives head first into his second year, and the semester starts with his monotonous professor introducing a live model, and Gabe doesn’t get into class on time, so he certainly misses a lot of that. Not that he cares. All he’s going to do is draw, the end. Same shit he’s been doing forever, rinse and repeat.

“For those of you who are just joining us,” his professor says, his voice going stern when he glances at Gabe, and that might just be the only time he’s heard any source of emotion in the guy’s voice. Maybe ever. “This is Tyson Barrie, one of our models for the term—“

Gabe drops his bag lazily against the floor so it lets out a loud thump just to spite his professor, and begins rummaging through to pull out the materials he thinks he’ll use for this. His professor is still droning on about _something_ , but it all blends together into one incomprehensible speech. Gabe absolutely couldn’t care less. 

That is until he looks up. And—okay, it definitely doesn’t go how it does in his head, but in his _head_ everything freezes in place. Because he meets eyes with said model, Tyson Barrie, and he’s got a smooth silk robe hanging from his shoulders and a soft smile dangling from his pink, pink lips. His hair’s a mess of curls that’ve been straightened out enough to look like waves and it makes Gabe’s throat click. It’s a lot to take in all at once, the way Tyson carries himself with this silent confidence. Standing there moments away from dropping his robe, but looking so pleasantly welcoming about it. 

Gabe shoves his charcoal back into his bag, pulling out his set of oil pastels, trying to figure out just what colours he’ll need to mix to create the exact shade of his hair, the same colour as his eyes. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to capture all of that on a blank canvas, but he’s going to try. At the very least, the splash of colour will be enough to recreate at least a fraction of the life Tyson brings to the room. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Tyson,” the professor says, stepping off to the side. He gets behind his desk, busying himself with one of his books, and that’s when Gabe’s fleeting attention becomes cemented in place. Because that’s precisely when Tyson decides to drop his robe, draping it over the back of his chair. 

It all happens too quickly for Gabe to register, watching him settle into a pre-rehearsed pose with all the grace in the world. And it’s just—it’s enough to make Gabe’s head spin and his fingers _ache_ with the needs to draw him. He’s never wanted to draw something out this badly in his life, and the second he picks up his first pastel, it’s over. 

He gets lost in the need to perfectly etch out long legs and hips that seamlessly trim down to a tight waist—perfect, perfect, perfect. Shadows fall across the muscles under smooth skin, and it’s Gabe’s job to capture all of it, but each stroke of his pastels brings him a little farther away from somehow putting sheer beauty to his canvas. 

It gets harder, too, when he catches the small curve in Tyson’s lips, his eyes looking at nothing particular. Right through everything. And Gabe could sit here and admire him for ages, but he’s got a job to do and, _fuck_ , he isn’t sure how exactly he’s supposed to translate that through oil pastels. 

It’s like, he’s been doing art for years. Art is his thing. But suddenly nothing is enough. 

He’s still working on his piece when class is dismissed and Tyson pulls his robe back on, being allowed into the backroom to get back into his street clothes, just like any other model they’ve had. 

And every other time, Gabe would be gone by now, but he’s been lured in by this one work, determined to get absolutely everything right. He’s still filling in empty space, still trying to get it, and his wrist is exhausted from working on this for two hours without a break, but. 

He pulls back when he feels someone’s eyes on him, _Tyson’s_ eyes, and he’s got on a dark shirt and distressed jeans, a black cap settled backwards on his head. Gabe swallows. 

It’s funny, how he can see Tyson fully clothed and it still manages to stir something in his chest. He’d just seen the guy fully fucking naked, but somehow this is just as good. He’s cute. Really cute. 

“That’s—amazing, wow,” Tyson says, tilting his head a little to get a look at Gabe’s work. 

Gabe almost has to avert his gaze from Tyson like a nervous child. This is something he shouldn’t be flustered by, not this deep into things, but he cracks a smile regardless. “I mean, I was just putting reality to the canvas.”

“I don’t actually look _that_ good,” Tyson says lightly. His eyes are trained on the piece, and every second they linger, Gabe feels a little more flattered. It’s hard to stomp down the way his stomach flips when Tyson smiles down at him. “You’re really talented, man. Fifty times better than anything I could do.”

“I mean, you’re good at looking pretty,” Gabe says to him, wearing an easy smile, and he slings his bag over his shoulder. “That’s where all the skill comes from.”

Tyson scoffs, and he walks with Gabe when he heads towards the door. “Gotta do what I gotta do to pay the rent,” he says, and Gabe pulls the door open, letting Tyson out first. 

They don’t chat for long, and it’s mostly about meaningless things with Tyson curiously interrogating Gabe about his artwork, looking absolutely enchanted when Gabe starts talking about his preferred mediums and favourite things to draw. 

“What about fruit baskets?”

“That’s the first thing you do in school,” Gabe says, and Tyson’s grinning now. 

“I thought that was just a stereotype.” He pinches his brows together, looking a little skeptical, and Gabe huffs out a chuckle.

“I wish,” he says. “You know, I’m never going to get any of the time I’ve spent trying to properly draw apples back. That’s gone.”

“Getting used to fruit torture is the real skill,” Tyson says, and then fishes his car keys out of his pocket. “Hey, I’ll catch you later, right? Next week, I think?” 

“Yeah,” Gabe says, and the smile Tyson flashes in return is just another example of something Gabe’s never going to be able to catch the full essence of on a piece of paper. No matter how hard he tries. “I’ll see you.”

Tyson offers him a wave as they part, and Gabe tries not to watch him head down to the parking lot. There’s a little skip in his step, and it just makes him all the more endearing. Of fucking course. 

One thing that sticks with Gabe as he’s heading back to his place is that Tyson’s a lot shorter when he’s standing next to Gabe, which—he’s never getting over any of that.

 

 

Gabe doesn’t have many sleepless nights. He treasures his sleep with all his heart, appreciating every bit of it tucked underneath his sheets. 

But he needs to improvise sometimes. And, tonight, he goes straight to the notebook he keeps in his bag. It’s his special one, and he drops it on his desk, switching on the lamp. The warm light floods over his desk, dipping into the knicks in the wood and highlighting every mark, but that’s not enough to catch Gabe’s interest. Not now.

Right now, he pulls a pencil out of his drawer and flips to a blank piece of paper. Gabe’s brain doesn’t even register what his hands are doing until he manages a rough sketch of someone. It’s shoulders up, more focused on capturing the intricate details of the soft curls in this _unknown_ figure’s hair than anything else. Gabe flicks his wrist to sketch every strand with careful precision, before moving down to the features.

When he finishes, he bites his lip, staring down at the page in all its mocking familiarity. It’s artwork he’s seen before, something he’s drawn more than just once.

Gabe ends up scribbling out the eyes of the model and doesn’t think about it again. 

 

 

He’s early for his first class next week, early for the first time in— _ever_ , maybe. Even his professor spares him a glance that’s far below malicious, instead more of this easy look that makes Gabe think maybe for once he’s feeling something a little less than bitter resentment for Gabe. That’s definitely new. 

There’s a model sitting on the chair at the front of the room and Gabe immediately recognizes it as Tyson, even with his head down as he scrolls through his phone. It might be the hair that gives it away. Because Gabe’s apparent fascination with it won’t let up, no matter how many internal wars he wages on that specific train of thought.

It’s the same as the first time, when his professor lets Tyson get into a pose at his own time and even then Gabe isn’t ready. There’s not a single way he’d be able to actually prepare himself for Tyson gracefully shrugging off a robe while offering a sheepish smile in Gabe’s direction. There’s a lot about that that makes him feel dizzy, and Gabe’s mind is already racing trying to get his acrylics out of his bag because blankly staring at Tyson isn’t all that productive, but here he is regardless. 

He tries memorizing the lines of his body, just so he can commit them to his mind and lessen the amount of time he needs to look back at Tyson. Because each glance turns into a little more, too caught up in the curve of his back, or the strong arms, or the way his hair falls so easily over his forehead. 

It’s hard _only_ to paint when Tyson’s this fucking gorgeous. 

He goes for bright pigments this time, because messing with colour schemes when it comes to acrylics is practically instinctual. Plus, he can give himself a chance to add more detail to everything else, painting Tyson’s face in solidly just to add an extra flare to the abstract nature of the piece.

This time Gabe finishes quickly enough to be packing up when Tyson approaches him, wearing this beautiful smile that Gabe thinks maybe he’d never be able to get enough of. Even if it was the first thing he saw in the mornings, every morning. 

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft and even. Gabe wishes he could come off that put together.

“Hey, come here often?” Gabe pulls his bag over his shoulder, and the corner of Tyson’s lips quirks into a smirk. It’s subtle, but very much there.

“Nice, really smooth,” Tyson says, fondly swatting at his shoulder. And then, “How is everything you do so _good_.” He’s looking at the painting now, his eyes trained on the colours like he wouldn’t be able to rip his focus away if he tried. 

“Somehow we’ve got the perfect model standing up there, not sure how that works,” Gabe says. “It’s easy when you look that good.” 

Tyson blinks at him, and before he can open his mouth to say anything, Gabe quickly rushes out, “Also, acrylics are great. I, uh, love—acrylics.”

“I can see that,” Tyson says, and Gabe doesn’t get enough time to figure out what the way his tone dips is supposed to _mean_ , because he immediately adds: “Shit, I’d love to stay and chat you up about paint s’more, but I’m in a little bit of a rush.” 

“No problem, drive safe,” Gabe says, and pretends he’s not utterly crushed at not getting to talk to Tyson a little more. Even if it’s just small talk. 

“I’ll see you—on Friday, probably,” he says, looking unsure about the date, and he’s out the door like that. 

Gabe glances back at his canvas and blows out a sharp breath. He’s absolutely gone on this guy.

 

 

He catches himself doing it again, helplessly drawing out the tapering lines of Tyson’s body, muscular thighs and prominent collarbones all standing out against the paper. The corners of his page are roughened up, and Gabe welcomes it more than anything. Sketches of Tyson slot perfectly into his special notebook, things he holds close to his heart, everything he wants to remember. 

And then—

“Artsy,” EJ sings over his shoulder, and Gabe doesn’t even get a chance to snap his notebook shut before it’s being swiped away from him. 

“Thanks,” Gabe says, deadpan. He tries not to express too much irritation towards EJ when he’s trying to get on his nerves, it helps usually. Not now, clearly, but most of the time.

“A little much don’t you think? There’s no way you didn’t have a reference for this,” EJ says, staring at the model he’s sketched out on the page. “Who’s the guy? Is he— _your_ guy?”

“Fuck off, you’re just jealous you took business,” Gabe blurts, avoiding the questions and reaching for his notebook, just to get it pulled away. “You don’t get to stare at hunks all day.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t you rather look at a stat sheet?”

“No.” He reaches for the notebook again, and EJ shoves his hand away.

“I don’t care what you say, my stat sheets are sexier anyways,” he says, and sets the book back down on the table in front of Gabe. “And it’s probably not a good idea to be drawing naked dudes at our dining table if you don’t want me bugging you for it. Pro-tip.”

“Maybe just don’t be a bully,” Gabe suggests, and puts on a smile he tries to purposely strain. 

EJ rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna blow you for knowing your way around a pencil,” he says, and quickly throws in, “but maybe your guy will.”

And EJ’s rushed out of the room before Gabe can get up and clock him in the jaw. _Good._

 

 

“Hey, you got any plans for lunch?” Gabe hears, and nearly snaps the charcoal in his hand. 

When he looks up, Tyson’s watching him. He’s wearing careful eyes as if he’s cataloguing Gabe’s reaction, a quiet smile stretching his lips, and everything about him is just a little softer. Somehow, it makes it easier to approach.

Even if Gabe isn’t doing the approaching. Even if he’s really just—along for the ride.

“Oh, no, nothing really,” Gabe says to him, and tries to keep his voice calm. Like there aren’t bells going off in his head at this.

“Cool, uh, because I was wondering if you’d let me take you out? Like, to lunch,” Tyson says, and there’s a delicate pink colouring his cheeks, dusted over his skin beautifully.

Gabe can’t help but feel his words catch in his throat, stuck like he isn’t sure what to say. Although in reality his response is on the tip of his tongue. Even if _yes, yes, yes_ probably wouldn’t be the best thing to blurt out to Tyson’s hopeful eyes and anxious smile. 

“That would be great, yeah,” Gabe says, and he packs his bag up, practically throwing his things in. There isn’t much patience in it, but it’s not like he’s being graded on how well he takes care of his shit. 

Tyson’s face practically lights up at that and he offers a nod. “I know a place down the street from here, are you down for Thai?” 

Gabe swears he’d eat a brick for lunch if it meant it was over a meal with Tyson. But he can’t actually say _that_ , so, “Yeah, of course. Thai’s great.” He ignores the voice in the back of his head telling him _so is Tyson_ , and follows him out of the room, bag over his shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d actually be up for lunch,” Tyson says, once they’re outside. “Or at least, not that you’d accept with your professor still in the room.”

“Wait, he was in there?” Gabe turns his head to catch look at Tyson, and he’s wearing a smile that makes it look like he’s going to double over into laughter.

“Are you kidding?” 

He feels his face burn a little, especially because all they’ve been doing these past few classes is flirt. And now this. “Look, plenty of artists have gone out with their muses,” Gabe protests. “Can’t name any off the top of my head but—you know.” 

“I’m sure they all tagged along with them for lunch _right_ after an art class, too,” Tyson says, and he shrugs innocently. “I must’ve missed that history lesson.”

“You approached _me_.” 

“No excuses,” he says, in some over exaggerated flat tone and Gabe scoffs, knocking their shoulders together. “I’m appalled by how unprofessional you are.” 

“You’re _really_ lucky you’re cute.”

“Cute enough to make lunch plans with in front of your professor?” Tyson asks, and he fucking bats his lashes at Gabe when he glances over. 

The thing is, the answer very well could be yes. And he’s almost sure Tyson knows that. He must be fully aware that Gabe’s heart speeds up a little every time they’ve gotten this close. He should know it off the top of his head by now, that Gabe’s an absolute mess. 

So, “Clearly,” he says, and Tyson gives him a breathless chuckle. 

 

 

The first time Tyson spends the night at Gabe’s place, Gabe wakes up to light drifting into his room through the window. The sunrise drowns everything in fiery pinks, splattered across his room like paint, but the rays that travel down to the bed are softer. They splay out over the sheets, catching on every little thing.

Like when Gabe looks over to see the expanse of Tyson’s back highlighted by mellow light. 

His head is resting against the crook of his arm and every line of his body is gorgeous, enough that Gabe nearly stumbles trying to get out of bed to make it to his bag. He pulls out the first pencil he can find, slotted into one of the pockets, as well as the roughened up notebook that fits in his hands like home. 

The page he flips to is on the backside of a loose sketch he’d made of EJ’s _I got a dig bick_ mug, and he rolls his eyes before sketching out light lines. They’re easy, barely there with lots of room for his mistakes, and then he fills it all in. The curves of his sides, the muscles in his shoulders, the soft line that runs up the centre of all of it.

And, “Hey,” Tyson says after a moment, turning his head to peek up at Gabe. His voice is thick with sleep, bleary eyes and messy hair topping it all off. But he freezes immediately, when he catches sight of the notebook clutched in Gabe’s hands. “Oh, do you want me to stay still?”

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Gabe tells him mildly, holding the book in his lap as Tyson shifts to sit up. Lips touch Gabe's cheek as he moves to settle in next to him. 

He peeks down at the book, and smiles, and Gabe is never going to get enough of Tyson’s morning smile. He’s never going to be able to capture the context of it all on paper, never able to transfer the way it gives him butterflies. But those are the parts of him he can tuck away just for himself, keeping it for his own. Even if Gabe wants to draw every other part of him, mixing pigments and shades to recreate perfection.

“You’re amazing, y’know that?” Gabe says, and Tyson leans his head against his shoulder. 

When he reaches out to take Gabe’s hand, he gives it a squeeze and everything else feels just a little less important.


End file.
